


First Encounters

by squeezedoutofmiracles



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Hemoshaming, Human/Troll Relationship, Humanstuck, M/M, Nook Eating, Nook and Bulge, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Prostitution, Riding, Secret Relationship, Sex Tapes, Sex Toys, Shameless Smut, Xenophilia, that one bulge thing, what the fuck do i tag that bulge thing as, you'll find out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:24:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2176239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squeezedoutofmiracles/pseuds/squeezedoutofmiracles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where trolls and humans coexist, there are rules put in place to protect you. To stop accidents. To prevent people getting hurt.</p>
<p>And as much as you love living by the rules, there are some times you have to make exceptions, and your curiosity never has been something you're very good at placating.</p>
<p>Your name is Equius Zahhak and tonight you're going to do something regrettable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Encounters

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative titles:  
> First Encounters  
> / Troubling Thoughts  
> / The Fourth Kind Is A Butt Thing  
> / First Encounters of The Fourth Kind (it's a butt thing)

He was late.

But then again you had been warned that he would probably be late because he was a highblood and he took his own sweet time getting to things. The mere thought of him meandering around the side of the road and getting distracted by clouds at your expense was enough to have you trembling and gripping lightly at the edge of the couch cushions, burying your fingers in the overstuffed cushions and trying to calm down your heaving breaths.

You'd been planning this evening for weeks, every detail was planned out, no expense spared. This was the one time this was happening, and you wanted to savour every second.

You are Equius Zahhak, and tonight is your first and only meeting with Gamzee Makara. The circumstances of this meeting are illicit and secretive in nature, which only serves to make your hands clutch tighter into the cushions at the thought of what would happen if he were to betray your trust. If anyone else were to find out...

What you are doing is not explicitly illegal, although you have heard of many people condemned to an institute for fabricated bestiality charges for doing a fraction of what you are planning to do tonight.

But it's not every human who gets the opportunity to have sex with a troll.

Thinking through it like that, highlighting the differences in your species and the implications of what you are attempting, is dizzying. You've been tiptoeing around what tonight really means all the time you've been arranging it, trying to justify in your head that you are simply sating a morbid curiosity and this doesn't mean anything, that anyone else who had the means to do what your doing would be behaving in exactly the same way.

What? You aren't INTO it or anything. It's just... It's just...

But that way of thinking doesn't justify the fact that the thought of his name has your pulse racing, that you've spent dizzying amounts of money on getting everything just right for this evening, the hours you've spent researching through deep dark corners of the internet to make sure every detail will be perfect. You were amazed when he even allowed you to add him as a contact on the troll's chat client, which you had to download at great risk to the hardware of your computer since it isn't normally used to running on a device which doesn't ooze slime.

Early morning dashes outside so nobody had a chance to glimpse the unmarked packages left underneath your mail box, whispered phone calls, email messages deleted and then re-deleted so nobody could ever prove they had taken place, obsessively thorough history clearings on your computer, every moment of it had been leading up to this, and you weren't about to back out now. This was a one time thing. One off.

Definitely.

There's a knock on the door.

You jump in your seat, glancing towards the windows to make sure the curtains are already pulled tight, and shoot from your seat to unlock the door. There are countless prayers whizzing through your head that it's him, but also that it won't be, that it'll be your best friend and you'll have to call off the whole thing and never ever think of it again.

The door creaks open slowly and you stare out through the gap, breath heaving as you wonder if this is your first real life glimpse of a highblooded troll, one of the noblest blood caste and most discerning composure...

"Heyyyy motherfucker. Sorry to keep a brother waitin' on me, slept in wicked nasty." He chuckled, grinning and waggling his fingers as you stared out at him through the crack opened up between the door and its frame. He's immediately different from his online persona, although he's identifiable by the way he structures his sentences. Nobody could ever hope to imitate the way he speaks, no matter how many expletives they jam in there.

He looks at you expectantly with a lopsided grin, looking to the door and then back at you. "Can a motherfucker come inside or are we gonna do this out here?" He asked with a chuckle, knocking on the door again with the hand which isn't holding a club dangling down by his side.

"Oh! Of course! Certainly! Right away, Highblood, uh..." You wrench the door open and step aside for him to enter, noticing he has to duck to let his horns past the doorframe before you shut the door behind him and lock it in three different ways. He grins at your behaviour, watching you with an easy relaxed expression as if he finds it quaint how thorough you are being. He's relaxed and smiling through the whole thing, as if he's done this before a thousand times, but when you stop to think about it that number probably isn't too far off.

"Can I get you anything?" You ask, turning back to him and looking him over with a slightly awestruck expression. Seven feet tall plus horns doesn't register when it's a statistic written down on a profile, but in the flesh it's something else. You suspect he may have been generous with those figures but even so it's something all together terrifying and he is even more awe inspiring when he's close enough to touch. 

He waves away the offer, smirking and shaking his head. "Nah. Thanks though, brother, but I'm all good. You wanna show me through?" He offered, looking around the house. It's far too normal a setting for a troll and a human to be meeting like this, with their plans already made and their props prepared and laid out in another room. This should be happening in a back alley or an abandoned warehouse, not a house. Not your home.

Yet here he is, looking slightly gormless and standing in the middle of your entrance area with a discoloured club hanging from his left hand and his right resting on the strap of a bag dangling on his shoulder. 

And he looks glorious.

"Y-yes. Of course. Certainly." You nod, gesturing for him to follow you upstairs to where there are more drawn curtains, but also a stripped bed with clean new sheets stretched over it and a camera standing by on a tripod in the corner of the room. You'd been testing it earlier, it can get every section of the room on film and it has up to two hours on it. You won't be missing anything.

He nods at the set out of the room, going to sit back on the bed and heave his bag off his back onto the bed to accompany the other props already laid out there, glistening and clean from never being used before tonight. And tonight was the one time they'd ever see the light of day. Or night. After this they were being packaged away in the back of a closet or burned. Or sold, although it was difficult to believe that anyone would ever want some of this second hand.

"So what am I giftin' a brother tonight? You were the gold package, right? Full prep, filming, the whole motherfuckin' deal?" He grins at you, seeing how you shook and gesturing you closer.

With shaking steps you obey, swallowing and joining him on the bed. And up close he's stunning.

A face full of thin features and dark eyes with a wild mess of hair he must have spent hours trying to puff up that way. Or no time at all. You'd read up about troll hair (and meticulously researched every aspect of troll biology) but refrained from asking too many questions. Questions were expensive. In this niche market, with such hefty penalties if one member wasn't discreet, everything has a price tag. It's only thanks to your well paying job that you could afford to indulge this... Passing fantasy.

"You sure you're OK with this, bro? I won't charge you full if you wanna back out. Promise. Every motherfucker's allowed to have second thoughts." Consent is highly emphasised in this business. If one side wanted to back out and claim that they had been coerced into it then the consequences for the other half of the pair were catastrophic.

"No! No, I want to continue, I'm fine, I just..." You look off to the side, at the intimidatingly clean and perfect planes of the sheets on the bed. "This is new. Nothing more." You nod, trying to pass if off as that. He takes your hand, skin thick and cool in comparison to your own, and looks you in the eye.

"You wanna stop you just gotta say. Thats all. Easy as anythin'." He strokes his thumb over the back of your hand and you find yourself disappointed that the first time he touched you was to calm you down like that. It should have meant more. It should have been more exciting.

You nod in response, staying silent and uncertain. "Come on." He smiles, patting your thigh gently and nodding back towards the bed. "Lets get a motherfucker prepped. Undress for me, bro. Show me what I'm workin' with."

You stand, turning to face him as you pull off your shirt over your head, revealing toned muscles and gleaming skin. Gleaming pale skin. Nothing like his cool stormy grey, and when he catches you looking down at it almost dejected he stands up to join you, putting a hand on your waist and looking you in the eye. "Motherfuckin' impressive I gotta say." He grinned, chuckling and running a hand down your side. It's a cool touch with sharp nails, making you gasp in a breath as you stared up at him and resisted the urge to trace the lines of his face with your fingertips, make sure he was real.

Wait, why are you resisting? You're paying for the privilege of his company, you might as well get your moneys worth. With lightly shaking fingers, you reach up to drag your fingertips along his jaw, feeling the cool texture of his facepaint under the pads of your fingers, the hardness of skin stretched over bones in a face much more slender than your own. He looks like he was overgrown in too short a time, towering and gangly and all sudden corners, everything from his smile to his hair is stretched curves twisted too far.

Meeting his eyes, you realise you've stood there for too long already, but don't want to break away. You had to leave it to the professional.

"Take your shorts off for me, an we can start with the body paint." He suggests, not yet authoritative. Just the present expert. "You're indigo, right?"

You nod in return, going to take off the rest of your clothes apart from your underwear, leaving them until he would give explicit instructions for them to be removed. You don't want to get excited before your time. This is an experience to be savoured, drawn out, and no amount of premature ejaculation is going to spoil that for you.

The term 'trollsona' is one you find personally ridiculous. You hate it. It makes this whole effort sound childish, like playing dressup, when really it's more like an ancient and respected tradition in which individuals transformed themselves into a different skin, an alternate for themselves. It is more than mere dressup. It is a fine art.

But trollsona will have to do, because it is what it is. Despite the unfortunately childish and embarrassing terminology it is what you're becoming. An embodiment of yourself in a different skin. And after extensive research into the caste system and troll society you had decided that you were best suited to the caste snugly below highblood; not low enough to burn at the touch, not low enough that a mere human outlived them, but one of the strongest and most skilled castes who prided themselves on loyalty and hard learned skills, conducting themselves with elegance and authority. That is the caste you belong in.

The caste you should have been.

As you undress for the Highblood, he starts to unpack things from his bag. Most of them remain hidden for now, although you catch glimpses of items which make your pulse stop, and he unpacks a range of fairly intimidating cosmetic items such as an airbrush gun and bulky portable compressor, some pallets and pots of paint as well as a roll of brushes sponges and such which make your head spin. Second, third, fourth, sixtieth thoughts rush through your 'think pan' as you watch him plug something in and arrange a bunch of specialised pots to load things into and clean things off with.

"Thats a lot of equipment." You find yourself remarking, watching from the middle of the bed and running the new sheets between your fingers as you list off in your head the ones you recognised. The airbrush is similar to the one you sometimes use for colouring robots, and the air compressor is a familiar sight, but the rest of the makeup is from a realm of knowledge beyond your training.

He looks up, offering another smile and a chuckle as he goes back to his work and nods. "Yeah. Well we wanna do a good motherfuckin job, don't we?" There's a smirk decorating his painted features which lights up his eyes, and he's testing the paint on a rag hanging from his pocket in a way with practiced motions which tells you that this is absolutely routine for him. He looks completely immersed in his work as he tests this and fiddles with that, and you wonder if you look anything like that when you work on your robotics before he is adjusting some settings on the compressor before getting up onto the bed and leaning over you. "Want this to be special. Right?"

You'd been talking with him on the chat client for at least a few weeks, in which he'd well learned that you intended this to be a one time thing. This was an individual experience. Once and once only, told to him in a dozen different ways. So the pair of you have to make memories to last a lifetime.

"Right." You murmur back, leaning back on the bed and resting your head squarely in the middle as he puts a gentle hand on your leg, holding down the trigger and starting to spray your skin a blue-tinted grey in smooth wide circles. Shivering slightly at how cool the paint is, you try to relax yourself back into the clean crisp bed sheets; to let him work.

Part way in he puts some music on, the stuff he listens to and often posts about on the forums he frequents. You tried to get into it before, almost like a painfully outdated parent trying to listen to young music and prove they still had it, but it only made it more obvious that your ears were designed differently to his because the warbling noises and unreasonably high trills were torturous to you and most other humans, whilst trolls loved them. Apparently in the backstreet clubs they set up for themselves this was what crackled from the speakers. In turn, they found bass music unbearable. Complete opposites.

Gamzee had tried to comfort you that not all trolls were into his kind of music, that there were plenty who liked the transition hybrid music which had been born of humans and trolls (only the highbloods worthy of human interaction, of course) collaborating and birthing some unholy screeching spawnling. But you find even that easier to stomach than this disgusting racket; it reminds you of bad early 2000s techno. Some of that period of music was apparently incredibly moving to them.

This fact is funnier if you imagine a troll getting over a bad breakup with basshunter playing in their room as they sob to pictures of their ex-quadrantmate.

Either way you let him play it, content to map out the movements of his fingers on your skin, listen to him murmur under his breath in the tongue the aliens had brought with them, marvel in the fact that he was there and he is yours for the evening.

Or rather, you are his.

Refilling the airbrush several times with different combinations of highlights and lowlights, different hues of colouring, it takes him an age to finish shading your skin. One of those body suits would have been so much easier but he promises this will be worth it, that you will barely feel it and once it's set it'll look entirely convincing. That if you wanted you could leave the house and nobody would look twice, since you passed completely. At the moment you are unconvinced, since you don't want to look until the big reveal, but he's certainly putting a lot of effort into it.

The makeup brushes come out once the base coat is done, contouring and highlighting away over the base of light and dark grey, until your face is more defined and angular than it has ever been before. Your eyes closed, you can feel his fingers padding powder compact over your lips and cheek bones to darken shadows there, feel the brushes fluffing across your skin. The money you saved for this is worth it just for the experience of being this near to him, feeling his fingers on every inch of you.

He presses fake nails to the end of your fingers and toes, messed around at your ribs on some anonymous detail for minutes, sliding prosthetic attachments onto the shell of your ears until there is no detail left neglected. Every inch of you will be a perfect likeness if everything goes to plan, and each second spent preparing you has you more and more high strung, eager, edging slowly towards an imperceptible finish line which is so so far in the distance.

Every single detail you've put into this evening is worth it when his hands rest on you for a second or you can hear him churring something to himself in his native language. When his hands find themselves at rest in your recently dyed hair (troll black for /tonight only/ from its original blond) and his breath brushes your cheek when he leans in to critique his work, all you want is to pull him in and bury your face against his neck. Remember that scent for when you're reliving this moment.

"Are you doin contacts?" Snaps you out of your daydream, your disappointingly human eyes settling on his and you nod. Yes, you had bought contacts. He sucks on his teeth, realising that you now couldn't put them in for yourself without washing your hands clean and ruining the surprise. "Ready to be a big brave motherfucker for highblood an let me put them in for you?"

Even as a joke those words had you jerking upright, nodding. "Y-yes." You respond eagerly, and he reaches for the contact case you have ready along with the rest of your props. He takes them out easily, professionally, as he restes his hand against your cheek and pulls your eye open with the other one.

"Alright, in three, two, one..."

They go in with a dry searing sensation, and half of your right eye gets immediately obscured from how it goes on almost sideways, but when they get straightened and correctly rotated he seems impressed, administering eyedrops and nodding at the end effect. Oversight avoided. "Motherfuckin perfect. They're beautiful." He grins, inspecting your face and nodding to himself as he grabs a hairbrush and one of the more specialist props you had had commissioned. It's worth it.

They are magnificent.

"Horn time." He chimes, letting you sit upright and reaching up atop your head to part your hair and nestle them into place, going about the complex practiced art of winding wire through your hair and hiding it again with pins and hairspray until it looked like they have always been there, and so they won't fall off. You've chosen the manufacturer and the model very carefully, a custom pair, and you're extremely proud of them. The highblood himself had said how much he liked them in previous contacts between the two of you. How they tell a story.

"Perfect. Again. Motherfucker you are just too much perfection." He smiles and you can't help a slight smile back at that, watching him as he looks right at your skin to check over every last detail. Nodding gently, he gives the final seal of approval and looks you in the eyes with an eager smile. "Now. The... Final addition?" He asks with an eyebrow wiggle, running his hands gently down your arms. You clear your throat and avoid his eyes, nodding as he reaches to a black box set on the bed covers and set it down on his knee, undoing the blue ribbon which matches your blood colour exactly and tossing it aside as he lifts the lid to reveal the latest and most prized addition to your collection.

Truth be told, if there was a fire in your house and you only had time to save one thing, it would be this. You would run from the burning building clutching this to your chest. This mechanical strap-on, crafted to your exacting standards with some choice modifications added in your own workplace after the rest of the workers had gone home, was crafted to look and feel exactly like a trolls bulge. And it would be the item nestled to your muscular chest as you leaped from the window of your house as it went up in flames.

And it was blue too.

Grinning at it smugly, Gamzee looks back at you and a dangerous look flickers along his feature. "Can you feel it?" He asks with a smirk, gesturing for you to take your underwear off before reaching to drip a few squeezes of lube into it and leans down to start to slip it on. Unlike regular strap-ons, this one had a hole for you to slot into. So yes, you can.

"Some of it." You reply in a breathy whisper as he slides it into place. It hangs limp still, looking a little embarrassing and sad like a kicked puppy, but it isn't switched on. When it is there are several awe-inspiring features, such as the heat sensitivity. A miniature heating and cooling system hides in the wires and tubes which fit in the grey leather harness which circles your hips snugly can mimic the temperatures the extension is experiencing, and the tight fit of the harness gives you optimal motor control.

Yes, it works.

You know through various experiments with tubs of water that the temperature system is obsessively close to 100% accurate. Also that the whole device is entirely waterproof. And it buzzes gently, just to keep things interesting, whilst copying the movements of a genuine bulge. It squirms towards heat like a heat-seeking missile, and is realistically self-lubricating. Also the pressure sensitivity in it guarantees to copy the sensation surrounding it back to the wearer and hot diggity damn you are frickling proud of that strap-on. If you make more like it and sell them then you could pay for more evenings like this with ease but for now this is just yours, and you can enjoy the thought that you are the only one who has one anywhere in the world.

With the thick straps buckled up behind you and around your thighs everything's in place, and Gamzee sits back to admire his work.

"Beautiful." He murmurs, and you find yourself feeling a heat rise in your cheeks whilst you lay there with your legs spread and every inch of you covered in grey body paint, but you don't feel silly. It all feels right. Still smiling at you, Gamzee tosses you your shorts again so you can redress as planned, but instead of tossing your shirt to you again he reaches into his bag and tugs out something new. Something squareish and floppy, wrapped in tissue paper and a blue ribbon. Your eyes widen when he hands it to you with a grin, his eyes squinting slightly from how widely he's smiling.

"Crack that shit open!" He encourages you, as you look blankly at the present you hold and back up at him. But... You're the one paying? Why is he giving you something? And you aren't one to nitpick (thats a fuckin lie), but this obviously hasn't been gift wrapped in a store. There's more tape than paper on the darn thing, and there are a few tears in the polka dotted crepe wrapping which covers it, just enough to reveal snatches of soft black fabric underneath. You carefully undo the ribbon with hands you don't recognise, marvelling at how they look like someone else's, and pull back the paper as carefully as you can although it crumples in your grip.

It drops away to reveal a soft black tank top, folded neatly to proudly display the emblem printed on the front in your blood colour. You unfold it with your mouth hanging open, slack-jawed, to hold it up in front of you. A trolls shirt. The one thing you had denied yourself, the one thing you decided was a step too far. "D'you like it?" He asks, leaning forward with a grin and watching your expression. You look up at him, dumb, and blink slowly.

"Is it for me?"

He snorts, slapping his knee and nodding eagerly. "Motherfuck yeah it's for you!" He exclaims, nodding like an excited child and shuffling closer. "Hope it motherfuckin' fits. Had to guess. Don't think you're a 'petite' troll, but you're a lil on the small side."

Your breath catches in your chest and you crumble the shirt in your grip as you look over it at him, watching his smug proud expression at your filling eyes. "You like it or not, brother? Did I get the hue wrong?"

"N-no. No it's..." You pause, swallowing and composing yourself. Noble b100 b100d. Calm blue blood. Stoic. "It's perfect." You nod, still holding it up like a precious work of art. He lets out a slight chuckle, smiling at your wonder and reaching up to hold it for you.

"We gonna put it on for you?" He asks, taking it from your hands and turning it around to open it up. You nod, feeling as if the section of your brain for speaking has cracked apart and you're stunned into silence. Slipping it on, it hugs your chest and compliments the cool shade of your skin perfectly. You almost match Gamzee.

Finally, FINALLY, you are a complete work of art. You try to look down but he catches your chin and makes you meet his eyes, smiling and shuffling closer to put a hand on your thigh softly. Tingles shoot from the spot he caresses and makes your dick twitch in interest. Your bulge, sorry. You've never had any problems adapting to troll terminology before but his real heavy presence is making it hard to distinguish between real life and this... this other life. You can't even bring yourself to call it fantasy any more.

"Come with me. I wanna watch the big reveal." He grins, making sure you keep your eyes up as you shuffle off the bed to your feet. "Close 'em." He whispers, hands on your shoulders as he walks behind you and follows you through the room to the mirror hung on the back of the bedroom door, your eyes closed. After a second of awkward shuffling and straightening up, theres a pause and his voice.

"A'ight. Open up."

When you look into the pane of the mirror you're almost certain it can't be you looking back. The troll, because they absolutely have to be a troll, could have walked straight off the front of a pamphlet enrolling archeradicators. He looks noble blooded and proud, with high cheekbones and dark eyes. There are faint scars on his face and arms, mirroring the ones you have had since childhood, except his are a faded navy colour, as they have obviously been there for years. His horns crest from within reams of dark hair, his ears peek between the shining strands which fall about his broad grey shoulders. He is everything you have dreamed of being since you first saw a troll and spent that evening in your bed as a child wondering why they were gifted with horns and you were not. And his eyes are more than just a little glossy.

"...say somethin', brother?" Gamzee chuckles from behind you, nudging you in the back and watching with a grin as you collect yourself and nod, getting used to the weight of the horns shifting as you move.

"It's... I look..." You begin, but falter when the lips of the troll in the mirror move too. He looks surprised, then a small smile twitches his lips and you find yourself smiling too.

"Ooh! One final motherfuckin' thing!" Gamzee reaches into his pocket and pulls out a blue boiled sweet, unwrapping it and holding it in front of your lips. "Open!"

You part your lips and he pops it in for you, grinning and nudging your jaw closed again. "Suck on that. Gives you a sweet motherfuckin' lookin' tongue."

Nodding, you continue to suck on it as you answer his previous question. "I do indeed look satisfactory."

He snorts hysterically, turning you around to face him and looking you over again. "Best I've ever motherfuckin' seen. Satisfactory my skinny ass, you're magnificent. Stunnin'. Alright, I'll change the motherfuckin' question; how d'you feel?"

You think for a second, swallowing the sweet and looking down at your stranger's body which is somehow more familiar than your original skin. "...e%quisite." You whisper, nodding to him. Gamzee grins, chuckling and putting a hand on your waist.

"An' you look it too." He smiles, letting his thumb stroke over your stomach as he watches you carefully. The air feels as if it were full of static, your hands reach forward of their own accord to shudder to a halt on his hips, pulling him closer as you look up at him and swallow. Strongly.

With a moments pause he leans in to press his lips against yours, a hand slipping to hug the curve of your head and pull you in close. You feel your bloodpusher start to thump double, triple time, as your arms rest reverently on his back and feel the contours of his spine under his skin, real and present.

His lips part invitingly for you, and your now blue tongue pushes past his lips to stroke along his lower row of teeth, and it's not long before you are tangled together by the door of your bedroom. You can't help but hope that his smell will linger in the room, that you will always have a physical reminder of him when you close your eyes and breathe him in. Your hands both go to his hair, tangling there in wiry curls as your mouth moves against his slowly, deeply, your nose buried next to his own as your tongues caress the curves of each others mouthes.

Touching him, really touching him, is so much better than you could ever have predicted from the pictures he posted. You couldn't have imagined how real he would feel, how strong his arms would be around you, hugging you to his chest, how you'd be able to feel the curve of his pelvis pressing against your stomach.

How sweet the fulfillment of months of yearning and shameful nighttime fantasies would taste.

How you'd be reminded that this one troll, these arms that hold you against him, are the ones which you'd submit to unconditionally, how they're strong enough (really truly strong enough) to have you at his whims. To make you forget your strength which deals out bruising hugs.

How he'd be the perfect temperature and you'd want to know what it was like to spend a sweltering summers day on a bed with clothes thrown everywhere and him as your personal cooling system. You'll have to save for months but maybe one day you'll be able to afford to afford to have him sleep next to you in summer when trolls are meant to be dozing all through the sloppy sweltering days. Surely he can't charge that much if he's just sleeping? Although there is an increased risk of being caught if he has to come to your house in broad daylight...

Your thoughts are cut off as you let out a grunt of surprise, Gamzee's fangs sinking into your lower lip and bringing up a fat bruise. When you pull away in shock he looks up to meet your eyes, smirking, and runs his hands down over your ribs to clutch at your waist and bring you close. "Did your Highblood say you could put your filthy motherfuckin' peasantblooded hands on him?" He growls, pulling up to his full height and sneering down at you. Your heart stops.

The transition was so smooth, you almost forget the weeks of planning behind it, of working out what you wanted of him, what he could give you to make it a night to remember.

"No, Highblood..." You whisper back, looking up at him with wide shadowed eyes. He smirks and nods, leaning in until you can taste his breath, your own curled up sticking in your throat.

"Then what up an gave you the motherfuckin' idea that you could go do a thing like that?" He breathes the words near your ear, your cheeks nuzzled together and you can hear the smirk in his croak. Your heart hammers, you can feel a sheen of sweat start to raise in your forehead and over your palms. Gamzee had been told about how you sometimes perspired excessively, and had chosen paint which wouldn't rub off.

"My apologies, Highblood... I just..."

His hands are on you so quickly you didn't even see them move, in your hair to gather it back in a fistful which sends shocks down your spine and straight to your bulge. "You just what, peasantblood? You just runnin' your motherfuckin' mouth at me?"

You whimper incoherently, looking up at him and mouthing. "I..."

He tugs harder at your hair until words stop working, you gasp for him and watch with a pained expression. His hands are almost stronger than your own, but there's no question that they can have you defenceless.

"Go back to the bed. Clear it. Get the camera ready, an' we'll see if we can put that filthy mouth to good use." He whispers to you, pausing to run his tongue slowly up your jaw and draw a stuttered gasp as your knees go weak. "Now." He growls, releasing your hair and pushing you backwards. You turn to hurry to the bed, gathering up his things and repacking his bag for him, storing it by the door out of shot, with other items he had left on the covers stashed on the floor on the other side of the bed. Whilst you hurry around preparing things he moves onto the bed, sitting on the edge nearest the camera with his long legs spread lazily as his eyes flick around the room with a predatory sureness as he watches you fumble and scramble for things.

The final step is to turn the camera on, checking the quality and shot to make sure nothing will be missed. It's rolling for a few seconds and you watch him lounging on the bed through the tiny screen before he speaks up, you're still behind it when he mutters to you.

"You've been bad, haven't you?"

It's simple, predictable, but you react as if it's the single most inspired sentiment anyone has ever imparted on you.

"Oh yes..." You breathe in return, hands still frozen on the camera when your gaze flinches up from the screen to fix on him, eager hands knocking the camera slightly.

He smirks, tilting his head back so you get a good view of that column of a neck with a dark purple shade over the vein where his pulse moves near the surface. You want to put your mouth on that skin.

"You've been a despicable motherfucker."

"Yes..."

He chuckles; hands splayed over the pristine sheets as his eyes never leave you. A slight movement of his legs, spreading further apart invitingly, catches your attention and you find yourself having to swallow hard.

"Come here."

His voice is low. He doesn't even have to push authority into it and you obey immediately. 

"Kneel."

You fall to your knees so quickly it's a wonder you don't go through the floor.

His eyes pass over you, watching your lips flutter as you gasp and your eyes widen to take in every detail of his face from this terrifying angle. He looks as if he could reduce you to ash with a word. A hand rests on the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair and stroking there leisurely as if he is considering your worth. /Please/ let him be considering your worth... 

"Poor disgustin' motherfucker." He growls, shaking his head slightly. "Lost without orders, ain't you?"

"Yes..." Your dialogue is really fucking riveting but it's all you can think to say in the choked intensity of the moment.

He snorts at your state, hand tightening in your hair and you give a hiss at the sharp sensation. 

"Motherfuckin' disgrace. How'd you even get to your larval awakenin'? The minstrels were kind to let you out the wigglin' caverns..." He pulls your head closer to where his thighs met, your breath jumping as your lips part for him; even through thick cloth you can tell you want your lips around his length. Such a depraved act of subjugation befits you. Although he can think of something worse. 

With a slow certain hand he pushes your head down until you are on your hands and knees, staring at his shoes. Thick heavy leather, you know they aren't what he normally wears from his everyday profile pictures, but they are definitely more fearsome than clown shoes. If he stepped on any part of you a bruise would be unavoidable. 

"Lick it."

The order catches you off-guard and you look up at him, eyes wide with uncertainty. He raises an eyebrow, watching you. When you pause for a moment too long he tightens his grip, drawing a whimper from you and making you look back down at his feet. Did he mean it? Is he really really using you like that? Nothing more than a service to clean the mess he makes and can’t be bothered to clean...

You lean in and part your lips, dragging your tongue in a slow deliberate pull over the surface of the matte leather, poorly maintained and scuffed in places. Pulling back up, you meet resistance from his hand and can't move away.

"Did I say to motherfuckin' stop?" He asks, and you can tell from his tone that he has an eyebrow arched to question you. You disappointed him.

"No, Highblood." You whisper, pressing your lips against his shoe until your nose pushes against the polish and pulling your deep blue tongue over it again, cleaning it with your mouth until it glistens blue. It's a long minute before he pulls you away, the thick heavy silence of the air crackling with the sound of your heavy breathing and the lewd wet noises of your mouth working against his boot.

This is so depraved. You’re both still fully clothed, and you’re mouthing at his boot like a barkbeast trying to make it shine enough for you to see your shivering reflection in it. The position and his silent unquestionable control over you makes you pant for breath, jaw shivering as you clean his shoes with your mouth.

When you pull away it's with a shaking gasp, his hand still controlling you. You finally meet his eyes again, your dark lips glistening with spit as he nods down to his shoes again.

"Off." Is the single-worded command and your shaking fingers go to unlace them, pulling them off and placing them aside each with a heavy weighted thunk. He makes you take your time with everything, making sure your task is done to its full completion before you start on the next one. And it's torturous.

When he pulls your head into position again it is close enough to the crotch of his pants that you could strain forward and lick it if you wanted to. Well, you do want to, it's more of an issue of if he were to allow you to. And you don't dare do something that you aren't specifically ordered to do.

"Take 'em off." He orders, nudging the thumb of his other hand into his waistband and informing you without room for misinterpretation that he is referring to his pants.

Your hands lift, trembling and careful, to the fabric of his waistband. Your fingers brush his stomach and you can feel his muscles shifting under the cool perfect skin as you pull his pants down over his thighs to gradually reveal inch after inch of smooth grey, down past his calves, and off to cast aside with a soft hush of falling fabric to a bundle on the floor to your side.

His legs seem even longer when they are undressed, lean and only muscular enough to keep him moving. You forget yourself for a second, a hand resting on his thigh as you stare dumbly up the length of his leg, tracing pathways along his thighs until you reach the point where his legs meet, and your eyes dip to what lies between them.

He was never wearing underwear, it seems, and the thought seems even more exciting than the fact that he is currently naked from the hips down before you. Of course you've seen pictures of what resides between a trolls legs before, and even once seen one in the flesh when a gutterblood had stopped (intoxicated) in the street to whip out her bulge and literally piss at you and the group of friends you were with. Although that had been different. This time it was close, intimate, you could tell from his slight shifting that he could feel your hot breath against his sheath, and this was a highblood. There was a highblood on your bed. You were at his service.

"You gettin' an idea of what I want you to do, peasantblood?" He says, his words a murmur meant only for you, drawing out the last word to a slow growling rumble. His bulge isn't out yet.

You clearly aren't exciting him as much as he is exciting you. You're half hard, but he looks barely interested.

"S-some idea." You manage to grunt out, sounding far less magnificent than you intended to, and your uncertainty makes him smirk. His hand is still present in your hair, holding you close, reminding you constantly of who is in charge and who is at service.

"Well lemme spell it the fuck out for you. Cause I don't think your poor motherfuckin' delusional trashblooded mind can comprehend it." He smirks, and you let out a slight 'hrrk' at how quickly you're yanked forwards towards his crotch. "Eat my motherfuckin' nook. An if you ain't good enough, if you don't make me see stars, if I feel a single motherfuckin' tooth, you're gonna know what true subjugation feels like." His hand is tight as a vice in your hair, holding you unmoving between his legs, until he shifts a leg to rest on your shoulder and keep you close against him.

There's no more prompting necessary; as soon as the order is given and you have time to process the reality of the situation you lean forward, eyes closed, and push the flat of your tongue against his coolness in a long slow lick. He almost purrs, something close to the satisfied noise clicking out of his throat and churring to your ears. When you glance up you can see his eyes have closed and his lips are parted slightly, and you can feel his fingers stroking slowly through your hair to encourage you on.

Getting more certain, you let your eyes close again and give another slow lick, tasting the beginnings of his wetness starting to collect on your tongue. The noise comes again as you mouth slow and hard at his nook, depraved lewd noises coming from where your mouth moves against him and making tingles fizzle down your spine straight to your bulge. You're starting to get into a rhythm when he speaks up again, hand cupping the back of your head and rocking it against him as you eat into him.

"That the best you can do with that hot motherfuckin gutterblood mouth of yours? Come on, you sad excuse for a shitblood, motherfuckin TRY!"

He pushes you closer, your mouth and chin buried against him as you pick up the pace. Lips and tongue drag over him faster, tongue tracing shapes and nonsense patterns against him, you suckle softly at the folds of his nook and all the while he lets out almost inaudible noises of pleasure, as if your actions are making him admit to sensations he was trying to repress. "Motherfuckin yyyeeessss..." He gasps out, moaning as you push your tongue into him and his hips rock slowly against your mouth.

Soon his bulge is out, and that's truly an incredible sight. It squirms against your forehead, wriggling there and dripping cool purple material to mark you up as his, stain your face with his colour and stroke slowly until it wraps around one of your horns and squeezes there in pulses. You can't imagine what that would feel like twined with your own bulge, but you're fairly sure you would make a mess if you ever found out.

Another leg loops over your shoulder and his thighs are pressed against your cheeks, holding you close so you can't push away with his ankles crossed behind your back. "Fuck... That's right... Motherfuckin gooooood..." He groans, and you can't see his face but you like to imagine his mouth is hanging open and his eyes rolled back. His first panted breath almost breaks you, you want to pull away from your task and finish him by fucking him to completion, but you KNOW what that would mean. He would tear you apart. You almost want to try it, but if you don't do as the highblood commands then what's the point of hiring a highblood? He's the best you can buy. And he knows how to do his job well.

His hips and your mouth set up a rhythm, he grinds down and you push back as deep as your tongue can reach. You're rewarded with a pleasured noise from him, sometimes it's a name panted out, other times its a long drawn out moan, else its the occasional rare whimper of pleasure and you catch sight of his head being thrown back. You can't wait to watch the film back.

When you are pulled away you draw in a gasp, looking up at him. Your mouth and chin are dripping with his colour, your eyes wide and begging for relief as he stares down at you, cold. He is so completely in charge of you that it makes you shudder.

"That's more motherfuckin' like it. You was gettin' to lookin" too high an motherfuckin' mighty, weren't you? Any motherfucker can be tellin' you're a motherfucker of servitude now. Gettin' to service your highblood like this is a motherfuckin' privilege, ain't it?"

"Yes, Highblood."

Theres no doubt in your voice, no question, because that fact is an absolute certainty. You don't deserve to be this close to him. You don't deserve to taste him, to get to hear the noises he makes when you pleasure him. He is far too high for you to ever hope to have him.

"You did a good job, peasantblood." He whispers almost lovingly, leaning forward and cupping your cheek as he smiles at you. He's dangerous, and you can tell from the way his teeth gleam through the smile. "An' now, you get your reward. Do you want your reward from me?"

"Yes..." You reply breathily, softly, disbelieving.

"Get back on the bed, then, an undress for your Highblood. Don't keep me motherfuckin' waitin' now." He finished with a smirk, stroking your cheek, leaning back and keeping his legs spread as you climb upright on uncertain limbs and pull your shirt up and off. He gives a slight smirk and you think he's satisfied by the gesture of submission before you look down and realise he's admiring your chest. When you look down to take your pants off, you have to pause too and take it in.

"Oh..." You whisper, holding still as if they're going to scatter if you shift. It takes a few breaths for you to gather your senses together again before your hands are stroking at the detail down the side of your stomach where six grubscars have apparently appeared. They look so realistic, almost exactly like what you know his look like but yours are a shady indigo to match your caste.

"You plannin' on keepin' me waitin' for much longer? Or are you gonna get the fuck over here?" He asks with a dangerous smirk as he wretches you out of your daydream, leaning forwards and casting a shadow across your bed with the thin sharp curves of his horns are emerging from the tousled mess of hair he bears and you hope you can remember this sight and the giddy excitement you feel right now because you're terrified of forgetting any of this.

Wordlessly, you slip your pants down and slide onto the bed to meet him half way. Before you can say or think anything his hands are on your shoulder and in your hair, and he kisses you like he's never wanted anyone more. His lips make slick sounds against your mouth, his tongue doing things against yours which should be illegal (then you remember they technically are) as your hands shiver by your sides and you resist holding him close against you because you don't want him to have to break away to reprimand you.

"Fuckin' disgrace..." He whispers, smirking against your lips as he pulls away and shakes his head with his lips still glistening slightly blue. You can tell his facepaint is stained against your lips from where his own are starting to tint more of their natural black shade but every thought in your head screeches to a stop when he reaches down to slide his fingers along the edge of his shirt, undoing the discreet popper buttons there and slipping it off sideways.

His chest is thin, skin stretched over ribs with just enough padding that he doesn't bruise immediately at your touch. If you were to touch him. Of course you don't. You cautiously allow yourself to eye his grub scars, to wonder what he'd sound like if you had your mouth at one of them. You picture him on his back with his fists in your hair, begging you to fuck him and make him cum which you do. The fantasy is rushed, skipping over the interludes as you have no time for daydreaming away this moment, not this real moment in front of you right now.

You notice somewhere along the line that his bulge is still out for you. It's lazily sweeping through the air, curling around on itself and just starting to glisten as it stretches towards you leisurely. It's a DEEP colour. The amateur photos on his page could never have done it justice, not even the ones of him knuckle-deep in himself as it curled fervently around his wrist to pull his hand in deeper as he made himself scream. Not the ones of him with his legs splayed to display the toy he rides, bulge knotting in on itself desperately to try and pry some relief from itself. Nothing, nothing at all, can compare to his real self.

"Highblood, I..." You want to say something to communicate this to him but your words have become limp and useless, ineffective. "I never... Truly realised, how it would be to have-"

You are cut off as he grabs your hair, yanking you closer until your lips brush together and his gaze is hard on your own.

"Shut up and fuck me."

Theres a noise in your throat like an animal gave up and died in there. It's a pathetic squeak as he's kissing you again and you respond, your body more eagerly responds. The bulge - your bulge, you remind yourself - is squirming in almost exactly the way his is, wet and ready. He glances down at it and, with a final decisive smirk, shoves you back onto the bed so hard you bounce. You gasp when you hit the bed, your head hanging backwards off the edge, and he straddles you without a pause.

When you heave yourself into a sitting position to look up at him again, he's wearing a victorious smirk and he grinds his hips backwards slowly as his hands come to rest hard on your shoulders, shoving you back down to the bed so you have no choice but to lie under him with your head hanging backwards unless you fight to keep it up. It's worth neck cramp for a sight like that, as he looks down at you with bright dangerous eyes and grinds slowly against your lower stomach with his ass brushing against your bulge, slow teasing touches which have you gasping and gaping up at him with pleading eyes.

"Never seen eyes that motherfuckin' begful outside a puppy boxed up on the roadside." He snickers to himself, thighs squeezing firmly around your waist as he tosses his head back and lets his eyes close whilst he grinds against your stomach in slow smooth motions with his hands up gathering messy bundles of his own hair. You clearly aren't experiencing the pleasure that he is, as he allows himself a private moment of quiet moans and his hips never stop their sinful smooth movement against your pelvis.

He works his way back with only squeezes of his cool thighs on your waist, soft noises still working free from his throat as you tense when you feel slim fingers brushing the underside of your bulge and he's looking down at you again with a small smirk, judging your reactions as he caresses and teases your bulge with cool fingertips almost experimentally. You give a stuttering gasp which sticks in your throat, and he does the same swirling movement with his fingers again to coax more noises out of you.

Soon his fingers are wrapped around your length which tries to worm between them, strains for the source of the slickness which is dripping along his legs and smooth against your stomach. He's pumping you slow and drawing out long moans from your throat, matched by his own louder noises as he looks down at you and bites his lip, eyelids heavy and half closed as he grinds against your stomach in long slow movements. He's edging closer to your bulge, and soon you can feel him tensing as he lifts himself to mount you properly.

When you push into him it's even more beautiful than you expected. He's tight, cool, so so wet waiting for you, and the noises you make in unison mingle into a duet of beautiful desperation as his head gets thrown back and he sinks slowly down half way onto your length before rising again with a shaky sigh.

"Fuck... S-so motherfuckin... Big..." He breathes out, making it sound like a chuckle. "I knew trashbloods were well-off but motherFUCK..." He rolled his hips down again and you're rewarded with his thighs tightening around your waist as he rides you excruciatingly slowly, the ridged insides of his nook squeezing you gently in time with the rise and fall of his hips as he rolls against you. Each time he falls he takes a little more of you until he sinks down to your hilt and he really is SO tight, too tight for his line of work...

"H-Highblood..." You gasp as he starts up again, his expression stern as he looks down at you with hair bobbing in time with the rolls of his hips. In a fluid motion he leans in to put his hand over your mouth, firm fingers digging into the hollow of your cheek as he stares down and gives an excruciatingly slow deep grind to bring your every attention back to the act.

"Shh..." He whispers with a mocking smile. "Shh. Your Highblood's gonna take care of everythin', ain't he?" He murmurs to you gently, completely contrasting to the fierce pace his hips have set going despite the grunting under his breath every time he falls to press his hips flush against yours. The bed is creaking, rutting into the wall with a sharp tap every time he pushes his cool hard skin all the way against yours, and you can't do anything but lie there as he rides you like a hoofbeast.

Your chest hitches as you feel the heat start to curl in your stomach, your toes rake over the smooth sheets trying to find something to take out your energy on as your fists grip at the edge of the mattress behind your head and your hips push up against him in a desperate attempt to claw more sensation from him, to bring your end closer even as it comes crashing towards you.

You lock away a breath in your chest, hold your breath, know from habit when you're about to finish that the ending is more intense when your lungs are straining inside you. It's been a habit for as long as you can remember to the point that you can't imagine ever not using this technique even when you're the one touching yourself. Its quite possible you can't finish any other way. But for now all that matters is that he's spotted the way your chest isn't rising and falling any more, and after a quick glance up to your face he's jammed both his hands firmly up under your chin and is slowly starting to squeeze on your windpipe.

"Shh..." He whispers again when your eyes widen and you gape down at him, he hasn't relented on the pace for a second. "Shh... Motherfucker, your highbloo'ds takin care of his peasantblooded motherfucker, that's all... Let it happen..." He's almost tender when he speaks, despite the wide smirk and the fire behind his eyes. This is a different troll from the one who walked in, and you are SO glad that it is.

Expletives and exclamations try to crawl past your lips but the words die before they get there, they're starving for air but you can't draw any. Your lungs are working hard under your ribs despite the way you don't want to breathe until he can finish you, they're trying to end the buzz of soft warmth creeping into your limbs and making the buildup higher and higher and higher as Gamzee snarls down at you and squeezes hard on your windpipe, hard enough to make you wince.

"MotherFUCKER don't keep me motherfuckin' WAITIN now you GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKIN SCUMBLOODED SLUT!" He barks at you, teeth bared as he rides you hard enough you think the bedframe's going to slam right through the wall and you are screaming thanks to every God that might exist that you have tonight, that he's snarling above you and pushing down nearly his entire weight on your throat as you try to whimper out a warning of your release but he won't ration you the air to give one.

Instead your finish comes thick heavy and fast, his hands flying away from your throat to jack his own bulge in short sharp motions as you arch away from the bed and moan out his name when you finish like a primal plea for blessing until you feel the cool wash over you and drips from your chest. You slump back down to the bed, harsh pants drawing as much air through your lungs as your body can manage until you're dizzy with relief, looking down through hazy eyes to see him still sitting above you, similarly recovering with a chuckle as he watches you with an almost sympathetic smile. His breathing is almost as ragged as yours is, and when he tries to lift himself off you it's with a tender wince.

He looks soft again. In the moments where he looks away and the shadow falls on his cheeks they're hollow, and darkness collect under his eyes like oil in a basin. There's a soft moment where he winces and brings his thighs together again, taking a moment to collect himself before speaking.

"Motherfucker, we gotta do that again some time..." He mutters, chuckling. Catching himself, he detaches from the sticky purple-grey mix on the bed and slips from the mattress, casting a last smirk over at you as he heads to the camera still blipping in the corner of the room, recording in high definition the perfection of you sprawled back on the bed sucking in air as if you'd been drowning.

He smirks into the lens and there the film ends.


End file.
